


House Calls

by Anonymous



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman Beyond
Genre: Comic: Batman Beyond 2.0, Dick vaguely tolerates it but would NEVER oh my GOD, Dissociative Superheroics and neon, M/M, Terry simps for Dick Grayson, Terry's in College and it's Going Not So Great, besides Bruce, but who says batman needs to pass statistics, who very much says batman needs to pass statistics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-22
Packaged: 2021-03-25 21:40:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30095520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Some new faces in Gotham, or some very old ones, depending on your perspective. Terry can sort of float above it all, but even from his balcony seats at this family feud, he knows things are going to shake loose. He's not sure how many times Bruce's family can splinter.At least one more, probably, Terry thinks, watching Robin Two pace like a wild animal in the empty mansion.
Relationships: But not really that last one, Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson, Dick Grayson/Terry McGinnis, Tim Drake/Jason Todd
Comments: 11
Kudos: 51
Collections: Anonymous





	1. Black Sheep

**Author's Note:**

> A synthesis of comics-verse and animated-verse stuff, tbh

Terry breathed in the city's ozone; rain had battered the asphalt all morning, and the clouds had cleared to pull up all the detritus into a heady, marker-huffing chemical smell that left something stuck to the roof of your mouth, but it couldn't take away from the gorgeous day out, or from the fact that Terry was skipping his math lecture at GU.

Crime was _down_ , in Gotham. He'd patrolled at five in the morning and barely stopped a mugging, and again in the afternoon, just to show the Batmobile around in the daylight. He was pouring more time into Batman and it was _working_ , and the city looked good. They hadn't taken a serious L in weeks, and Terry's bruises were actually healed. He looked good, too.

Okay, so he was actually pretty good at the Batman thing by now. Doing it his own way. He'd learned from Bruce, and he'd ditched him for a bit to get some guidance from Dick, and now he was sort of precariously 'back' to working with the old man. And, it wasn't like Terry didn't have issues with being back. With the whole kept-in-the-dark-till-the-last-second game Bruce liked to run, but he had Dick, too, who was a lot more forthcoming.

Dana had broken up with him. They weren't really working out, time-wise. Terry wasn't sure how to feel about it, except a little guilty and a little relieved. He had a strong hunch they'd work it out in a few years, when things were more... stable.

So now his spinning plates were: university, family, Bruce, Dick, Batman. In no particular order.

Oh, and this. The suit bled itself away in a haze of nanobots, stored itself under his streetclothes. He swung round Deckard's for the usual. The hospital was a short motorbike ride away.

The front desk lady knew him by now, as did the nurses. He wondered if any of them remembered him from that incident with Bruce. Shriek tried to fake a psychotic break for the old man, and Terry had nearly assaulted Powers in the, ah, _Powers Wing_ of Gotham General. Not his finest moment, tactically, but then again it ensured that Powers would always underestimate Terry.

Tim Drake was in the exact same suite. The one with the generous windows. He saw Terry bump open the door with his elbow, balancing two slices of pie, two decaf coffees, and a hamburger with diner fries.

"Terry, you're a lifesaver," Drake said, grinning.

"Don't thank me just yet," Terry warned. "I'm still not authorized to give you caffeine."

Tim made a face, but refused to be put out as Terry set his food on the bedside. He took one of the coffees for himself, and one slice of the pie.

"How's everything at the mansion?"

"All quiet," Terry reported. "Been a great weak, without wanting to jinx anything. Bruce says you have to take your time recovering, this time. He's having an army of dorks look through your work at Wayne Industries."

Tim nodded. "No rush jobs," he agreed. For a moment, something solemn flashed. "I'm going to need an assistant. Doctors say this time the tremor's not going to leave my hands."

He gestured to them, and Terry could see the shaking. It looked like a flinch, sometimes, like his hands were retreating, and he realized it was Tim trying to control for the tremors, which only had the effect of worsening them.

"I'll tell him," Terry said.

The Joker's parting gift: lasting neurological damage. Broken nerve endings. Heightened probability of strokes, of cardiac arrest. Dump shock from the Joker's brain written over Tim's. Drake still wanted to work, and Bruce did everything in his power to make that both possible and medically safe, but still. The damage had been done.

It meant that Tim was in worse health than Bruce. Especially from what Dick had discovered: they were calling it the Lazarus Effect. One-time users of the Lazarus Pit got a bit of longevity out of it; even after the first round of the Pit's de-ageing faded. Bruce's cells regenerated more rapidly and with better functionality than they ought to be able to, at his age. Use the Pit even twice, and you pass a threshold where the regenerative benefits are matched by the degradation, and if you want anything at all you have to start using more and more to keep the same bodily equilibrium.

Dick estimated that Bruce would live to a hundred twenty five, easy, so long as his liver kept up. And Terry heard the doctors say Tim was in the five-to-ten-to-we-don't-know-it-could-be-tomorrow camp.

So, long way to say he was bringing Tim coffee, and Bruce could fucking get his _own_.

Tim ate slowly, deliberately. One fry after the other. Terry helped occasionally, which he had utterly zero qualms with, and Drake stopped being self-conscious about after the third time. Terry liked Tim. Quiet and sharp. Reminded him of a grown-up Max. Pre-sunset light set the room yellow-orange, and Tim talked him through his math homework.

"Hey, d'you want Max?" Terry asked suddenly. His brain made these connections in odd directions sometimes. "For an assistant. My friend. You've met her."

"Yeah, the hacktivist? I'm a fan of her work," Tim said, thoughtful. His voice carried a sort of oddly soothing raspiness, and when he thought, he tended to rest his chin on his thumb. A Bruce Wayne thing that both Tim and Dick seemed to have appropriated, in their own ways. Now, his thumb carried that tremor, and Tim seemed to realize it, putting his hand away as he continued.  
"It's a lot more hardware, and a lot less software, but she's probably got a better foundation than whoever else WI can spare. And she's a quick study. Have her come around. Maybe we can swing college credit or whatever."

Terry beamed. A nurse knocked at the door, and entered, carrying flowers.

"Aren't these lovely? They were down at the lobby for you," she said.

Terry cleared space for them on the bedside table. They plumed out, red and yellow and wild. Robin colors, Terry realized. "They're gorgeous," he agreed, helping her set them down. "Who are they from?"

"Not Barbara, or Dick, they'd come in person. I assumed Bruce."

"Bruce would have had me bring them," Terry said, shaking his head as the nurse left. He rifled his hand around the bouquet, and found a card.

"What's it say?" Tim asked, mildly intrigued.

" _You deserved better from him,_ " Terry read aloud. He frowned, but Drake positively blanched. Terry caught that calculating look, the one scanning shit Terry couldn't see.

"Kid, you need to get back to the mansion," he said. " _Yesterday_."

"What's going on?" Terry asked, but he was already complying. He'd learned to trust Tim's calls.

"You know that thing you hate, where we all leave you in the dark about shit that happened thirty, forty years ago, until it becomes relevant enough to bite you in the ass?"

Terry's frown deepened, and Drake gave him a sympathetic look, shrugging. "Sometimes, we don't mean to do it. Try not to hold it against us. Every family has a black sheep."

He didn't like where this was going. He skipped the stairs, took the emergency exit, could always explain it later. Explain later were two of his favorite words, even. Sure enough, not five minutes after he took off from the hospital, the panic alarm went off on his bike helmet's HUD.

Bruce's console in the cave.

The city blurred after that. Straggler traffic, the urban exodus, was just shit to duck and weave. Terry took a shortcut, bumping his wheel up and off the pavement down and down an alley, breaking out into a more open street, opposite direction from the manor.

He took the newest path in. The one he and Bruce set up last year. If the cave was meaningfully compromised, and if it was old-head stuff, maybe Black Sheep wouldn't know about it. He ditched the bike at the underpass, pulled off the relevant clothes, and the Batsuit formed itself around him before his next step hit the ground.

This way into the cave let him out up high. All he could make out was the sound of a struggle. And one with Bruce in it, if the somehow stoic labored breathing was anything to go by. God, there he was, illuminated by the glow of the massive screen, laid out on the floor, cane two feet away. Terry let the information roll in, bleed over the similar scene somewhere in the back of his head.

_(Bruce, laid out, laughing low and dark, echoing off the walls. Slow, wracking gasps through a three-quarters-closed windpipe for breath. That fucking graffiti everywhere, HAHAHAHA!, the tang of Laughing Gas in the air, the certainty that Bruce was dying and there was nothing Terry could do about it but run to his side, prop him up, pray.)_

Someone was on top of him. His boot jets ignited and he tackled the guy off, barrelling them both into the medical table, and then against the backlit costume displays. Glass shattered around them, and the other guy was up first. Holy shit, he was fast.

Especially for his build. Terry was fast-guessing who this was, he'd done the homework. Robin Two. Sturdier, stockier, scrappier. Red Hood, angry as hell in every photo in the file. He had a mean right hook, but Terry had a mean _dodge the fuck out of that_. Another hit came just as quick, and all he could do was block it, let the force carry him out of Todd's swing, hope that the Batsuit was ready to absorb the shock.

Bruce was pulling himself up, now. Terry kicked out, caught Todd in the stomach, and centered himself between the angry ex-Robin and Bruce while he recovered.

"Enough!" Bruce called, from somewhere behind him. "Jason, that's enough."

"Not really your call, B," the man taunted, with a young-sounding voice. He gestured the universal for give-me-your-best-shot at Terry with his black gloves.

"If you're done assaulting _senior citizens_ , I'm happy to take this shit outside," Terry replied, knowing that by now he couldn't help that his voice got gruffer in the suit.

Todd laughed low, a little manic at that, but he straightened his stance and looked around. The fight seemed a bit drained out of him.

"Terry, show Jason upstairs," Bruce said, finally, and Terry chanced a look over his shoulder at the old man. Worse for wear, sure, and Bruce was busy smoothing over his hair, dusting off his jacket, but nothing looked broken. "I'll join you in a minute."

"You sure you're all right?" Terry asked.

"Oh this is _not_ my scene," Jason said, waving a dismissive hand in their direction. He vaulted himself over the table with a panther-esque ease and was at the top of the stairs in a few seconds.

"I'm fine. Keep an eye on him, please," Bruce said. Terry met Bruce's eyes, and saw something flash. Guilt, maybe. He was going to crack a joke, _what, don't want him stealing any fine china?_ , but Terry nodded, instead.

"I was with Drake. Todd sent _flowers_."

Bruce put one of his massive hands to Terry's shoulders. That little flicker was gone, but Bruce looked troubled. Just this side of haggard, with that thinness to his mouth that spoke volumes in the world's most specific language. Terry pulled the suit off, put a jacket on over his undershirt. This wasn't a Batman thing. Not really.

It was a Bruce thing, and in that, Terry was almost sympathetic; whether to Bruce or to Todd he wasn't sure. They'd had their problems, this last year or two, but they understood each other. Bruce had fucked up, in a few very self-destructive ways, a long time ago. At first, Terry felt betrayed, like his relationship with Bruce was under false pretenses. Now, he sort of just pitied Bruce, probably. And when Terry finally agreed to start working with Bruce again, any residual bitterness disappeared after the first two weeks. They worked well together. They bounced off of each other. Terry found he could push himself with Bruce around, and fuck up with Bruce around, and not worry about it the way he'd worry with Dick. The way he'd worry that Dick would worry about _him_. Bruce got the sense of urgency.

Still, Terry had learned a few things. He'd come to Dick first, if it was a family thing. If it was a _human_ thing, and not a Batman thing. And Dick had the most gorgeous fight style Terry had ever seen in a human being. And he was a bit hot.

Upstairs, Jason was pacing in the massive living room. Drawing room? Terry never bothered to learn the rich people vocab.

"You're still here?" Terry asked, a little surprised.

"Oh, good, it's the _intern_. Fetch the bossman for me, would you? I wasn't done."

Terry folded his arms. Purple, tv-static Gotham twilight glowed through the long curtains over the windows. Now that he was out of the Batsuit's HUD, he got a better visual estimation of Jason Todd, and it honestly raised some questions. The man was built, maybe a bit thinner than Bruce at his peak. He was broad-shouldered, like he could be a boxer. He looked--young. No other way to put it. Young. Like, forty, _max_. Was he Lazarus-using? It would explain the weirdly kinetic anger Terry could almost feel the tides of from halfway across the room. There was only one white streak in his short hair.

His jacket was hiding some serious heat, knives and a concerning looking pair of pistols. Terry had inherited Bruce's general dislike of guns, even if he wasn't nearly as paralyzed by the idea of using them himself, he got this weird phantom-hurt on Bruce's behalf than an ex-Robin was packing like that.

"Just, go _home_ , man," Terry said. "Tim doesn't need you defending him, and the old man sure as shit doesn't need this right now."

"And what the hell do _you_ know about it? About _Tim?_ " Jason spat. "God, you're out of your depth, kid. Do you think you're special, because he lets you wear the symbol? Fucking _Dick_ was Batman, you're just some hack kid in a ten million dollar piece of hardware you don't even _understand_ , playing _errand boy_ for that fucking freak downstairs."

"You know, that was what _he_ said, too," Terry said. Jason was pacing the other direction now, temporarily facing the other direction.

"What?" he asked over his shoulder, squinting like Terry was dim-witted.

"The Joker called me an errand boy," Terry said, amiable. "Before I kicked his ass. Not that I have to prove anything to you, the Robin who _fucked off_."

Jason picked up the threat in the posture of the sentence. He laughed darkly.

"Oh, I'd love to see you try. Go on, put the suit on so the old man can watch me hand you your punk ass in 4k."

Terry shook his head. "What is your _damage?_ "

"You can see how, from my perspective, it's all of you idiot _enablers_ with the damage? Grayson and his stupid daddy issues, and Tim and his ridiculous responsibility complex. I'm the only one of these fucking delusional morons that can look at Bruce and say _monster_. So, which are you? Because I'm betting daddy issues."

"I don't do this for Bruce," Terry said. He was trying not to get dragged into this conversation, trying to do the job Bruce had given him, ironically. Keep an eye. Jason found his answer funny. Or, he wanted to: his face contorted again before launching into another furious, cornered-animal tirade.

"Sure, kid. A bit of friendly advice? Bruce will never give you what you want out of him, not even if you pretend you don't want anything. It's not just that you're not worth it, _you aren't_ , it's that he's not capable of it. Dick and Barbara did _everything_ right, and Bruce _still_ doesn't love them."

Something in Terry got annoyed at that. Maybe it proved Todd's point, but what right did Jason Todd have to judge? What right did he have to demand more anger from Dick or Barbara? He was still fucking pacing like a caged tiger, upsetting the stillness in the manor air. Their voices carried a little, and the light had faded even during their conversation. Terry felt his lip curl in the dark.

"Oh, boo hoo," Terry said. "Who told you you'd get a happy ending out of this career? Bruce was an emotionally vacant dick for a few decades, and it fucked you all up. And in that time, you all saved Gotham like sixty times. Grow _up_ , this shit isn't about you."

"Jesus, it's like Drake's in the room with us," Jason muttered. "Does it ever suck being the most recent one, after so many of us? I bet you get compared to the others all the time. I bet Dick thinks you're a little mini- _me_."

"They don't talk about you. So much that you think Bruce is this big fucking bad, every time I've ever brought you up, their faces fall. At least Bruce has been trying. He's been trying for years. Where the fuck have _you_ been? If you really gave a fuck about Drake you'd go and _see him_ \--"

Jason was on him in a second. Like, a _second_. He should not be that fast. Terry felt the cool flat edge of a knife on his throat, and knuckles in the fabric of his undershirt. He felt bookshelves digging into the small of his back. He was running the odds, didn't like them. Didn't like the mean curl in Jason's smile. Up close, the man looked almost teenagerish, except he was very poorly shaven and way, _way_ too strong.

_"Jason!"_

Terry would recognize that outraged tone anywhere. Grayson ex Machina. He felt the pressure ease off of him, and the knife withdrew into a sheath Todd's jacket as fast as it emerged.

"Christ, it's the Bruce apologist brigade today. Don't get your panties in a twist, Grayson, I wasn't going to hurt the kid."

Dick's gaze swept Terry for injuries, and Terry nodded confirmation.

"What's going on?"

"Found him trying to strangle Bruce, took him up here."

"I walked up here," Jason said. "You can't take me for shit."

"Jesus, Jason." Dick's disapproval weighed heavy. His voice was more musical, not Tim's rasp or Bruce's ridiculous baritone. It was--God, Dick was the adult in the room, wasn't he? Out of all of them.

"What the fuck do you people want from me?" Jason asked, exasperated. "Look at all the shit he's put you through, Dick. You're half lead, missing an eye, covered in bullet holes from the shots you've taken for him, trying to lecture me about violence. Who the fuck are you _kidding_?"

Plus, unspoken but heavy in the air was the whole thing with Barbara. Bruce had a fling with Babs that killed Dick and her as a couple, permanently. And Bruce didn't even care about Barbara, not that way. He just did it to do it. To implode. To clear more space for Batman by jettisoning his personal life, if Terry had to hazard a guess. Maybe he didn't do it consciously for that reason, maybe at the time he thought he wanted it, but it was a hell of a lot to forgive. Jason wasn't without a point.

Dick was pinching the bridge of his nose. "You've found another Lazarus Pit."

"I've got my own shit to avenge, Dick," Jason spat. "And I'm not going to find some teenager off the street to do it."

"Great," Dick said. "Go do that, then. We all know what this is, Jaybird. Joker's been dead for decades, and you can't kill him twice, so you're after the next best thing. Bruce is an old man now."

"Not as old as he should be. Meanwhile, Tim's in fucking _hospice_ , and you're all defending his _abuser_."

"Not yet, he isn't, and you send fucking threatening _flowers?_ You know what's really bad for people with synthetic neurological degenerative diseases, Jay? _Stress_. You monumentally self-centered _ass_."

"I won't take that shit from the bargain bin Bat and I won't take it from you," Jason warned. "We both know you're two good kicks to the leg away from a wheelchair, Grayson--"

"--Don't fucking talk to Dick like that," Terry started, but Dick put a hand up, eyeing Jason, who did at least seem a little struck by the awfulness of what he'd just said.

"It's fine, Terry. I know what this is. It's a tantrum. Jason, you can go to mine tonight, if you don't have anywhere to stay in the city. And tomorrow, you're either going to be gone or you're going to be here, ready to talk to me like a human being."

"He's cowering downstairs, having you run emotional _interference_ ," Jason said.

"Actually," Dick replied. "Tim called me. And I went downstairs first, and told Bruce to stay down there, because I don't want to see him get hurt. And I don't want to see you hurt him. And you know what? He listened to me. Which is more than I could ever say about you."

Ouch. Terry could feel the I'm-not-mad-I'm-just-disappointed sting from his balcony seats over this family feud. Dick turned to him, tired smile somehow on his face.

"Terry, I'm going to stay in the manor tonight. Would you mind if I used your room?"

"I'll stay too," Terry said. "I've already patrolled twice today."

Dick nodded.

"Woah, woah, woah," Jason said. "I thought you wanted me to leave copycat non-killer out of it."

"Bruce trusts him. I trust him. I didn't want you putting a knife to his throat, but if you're going to air out your dirty laundry with Bruce, then yes. Terry's involved."

Jason was silent for a moment, and Terry got the odd sense that this hurt, somehow. He needed more information to go on, but he got what Tim was saying. This was personal. Sometimes you just don't want to talk about it until the knife's involved.

"I'll see you tomorrow," Jason said, finally, and Dick let out a breath he probably hadn't been aware he was holding. It was strange to see, but Terry could totally get the sense that they were almost brothers, once. For them to be whatever this was, now, was terrifying.

Jason couldn't help slamming the door on his way out.

"Tell me Bruce still has some alcohol around," Dick said.


	2. Night Wounds

"Tell me Bruce still has some alcohol around," Dick said.

Something sank in the man's posture, reminding Terry that Jason hadn't exactly been wrong. Dick had bullets up one leg and a very expensive synthetic bone-weave thing instead of the rightmost quarter of his hip. He struggled with his field of vision, with the whole depth perception problem. All it took was a stray shoot-up from one of the Joker's automatics. Bruce, who hadn't been thinking, who had re-accustomed himself to working alone, had landed in _front_ of Nightwing. The cape did its job, obscured fire away from Bruce's figure, and right up Dick's side. Nightwing never had a chance to dodge, he couldn't even see the gun.

Dick M. F. Grayson was still the world's greatest acrobat, even with all the extra _lead_. And he looked stupid good. Long legs and salt-and-pepper hair and strong eyebrows and a terrifyingly cute grin for someone that close to retirement age.

"He doesn't," Terry said. "But I do. There are like, twelve rainy-day-fund beers in the fridge and you're welcome to, uh, _all_ of them."

"Trying to get me drunk, McGinnis?" Dick asked, lip quirking. Ah, the classic Bat-adjacent humor deflection. Terry was so happy to first meet Tim and Dick and learn that he wasn't the only one who did it, like, _reflexively_.

Dick was in streetclothes, which is to say he was wearing black pants that didn't _look_ armored, and a midnight blue undershirt that came out to his wrists, tight against his ludicrously defined back. Terry wasn't in anything as thermal, except the Batsuit-tanktop, and the cold was bleeding into his arms. He lit the fire, a rich people thing he _had_ bothered to learn. It required a sort of rote functionality. A certain number of logs, a certain amount of kindling, arranged just so, and a match from the half empty box on the mantle.

They sat over the draped-over furniture in the living room, which had to be weirder for Dick than it was for Terry, and had a beer. Dick went through the Jason Todd Story with a bit better context than the folders, explained Jason's psych profile without Bruce's clinical bullshit. By the end of it, Terry actually felt _armed_.

They'd also had three beers each, which was a bit stupid, because the whole point of all of this had been to be sharp just in case Jason came around for senior smackdown round two, and instead Terry was flirting with Dick the way a dog chases after a Ferrari. He preferred girls, sixty/forty at _least_ , but Grayson was a special case, even old as, well, _dick_. Even _Max_ thought the old Nightwing suit was hot, and she preferred girls a hundred/zero.

Dick laughed him off. This was actually half-familiar, Terry played this game when he was training under Dick and his Miracle Abs. He brought around beer four, and Terry cracked an awful pun about rides.

"Uh huh," Dick intoned, brushing him off with a practiced, friendly ease. "Kid, you know I've got a body count that was pretty high before you were _born_ , right? You're going to need to work a bit harder if you want to go in for shock value. Just as a free pointer."

"I'm not inexperienced myself, though," Terry offered, 98 per cent joking.

"Let me guess," Dick said, rolling his eye indulgently. "I wouldn't be your first guy."

"Not even _close,_ " Terry agreed. He put on a mock-thoughtful expression. "First guy with an eyepatch though."

Dick burst into an oddly disbelieving laugh.

"What? I like the eyepatch."

"No, no," Dick said, grinning nostalgically. "I just had the world's _weirdest_ out-of-body deja vu. Sometimes I think my life's just this--" he drew an infinite loop lazily in the air. "Figure _eight_."

"Anger Issues told me he bets you compare me to him all the time, but you don't, do you?"

Dick seemed pleased Terry caught on. "No. You're like me. I mean, you're a hell of a lot different to me as well, and most of it for the better, too, but I _literally said those exact words_. And besides, you've got older sibling complex in your damn _sequencing_."

Terry could live with that comparison. They toasted their bottles against each other's, with a satisfyingly quiet clink of glass.

"So," Terry said. "I do my homework. I bet I can guess who tall, dark, and _eyepatch_ was."

Dick laughed. "Don't go there," he said. "Bruce is still mad."

"I want a supervillain booty call, is all I'm saying. I'm in my rights, as Batman. Bruce has, like, four."

"What about Melanie What's Her Name? The Royal Flush girl?"

"She's just, you know, a _troubled teen_ ," he said, with the heavy finger air-quotes. "A friend. Seventy per cent reformed. I guess the closest thing I got to it is Big Time, and he fell off a bridge. And I--didn't exactly... save him. I know, see-the-body-and-even- _then_ rules in this business, but..."

"I get you," Dick said, sympathetic. "I had people on the other side. Some of them really fucked me over too. There was this girl--did anyone ever tell you about Slade's time hounding the Teen Titans?"

"You _know_ they haven't," Terry said. "If it's not in Bruce's semi-psychotic files I don't know jack. I'm assuming you weren't hooking up with eyepatch that early though."

"No!" Dick exclaimed. " _God,_ no. Even he wouldn't. Hm. I mean, with _Terra_ , but I don't think he... Why are we talking about Slade again?"

"You brought him up, not me."

"I honestly hadn't thought about him in years," Dick mused.

"Sure, boy wonder. He doesn't age, right? Pass me your phone."

"...No."

"What's his contact number listed as?"

Terry lunged, Dick parried. "Get away, Bat-boy, I'm warning you," Dick said, laughing. "You don't want to see the contents of this phone."

Dick pulled his phone artfully out of reach, keeping Terry at bay with a foot against his chest.

"You don't think your encryption will stand up against a bit of Bat-Sleuthing? Damn, and the databases have you listed as a code-genius."

Terry was already reaching into his pocket. His phone came equipped with the latest in tech-robbery: Max's take on Bruce's take on the Gotham street-gear _magic wand_ ; designed to bypass locks as a minimum cost charge on a phone's credstick and brute-force the rest of the way in. For he next week or so, this was fucking _child's play_ , even on Dick's souped-up self-modded Wayne-tech privacy-guaranteed burner. Terry was scrolling through Dick's contacts on Terry's phone.

"This one's got _two_ tongue emojis," he said, and Dick stopped dodging Terry's flailing grasps at his phone to now go on the offensive.

"Terry, if you hit dial I _promise_ that is not who you think it is going to be," he said.

"This reads like a who's who of a teen heartthrob magazine from forty years ago," Terry mused, distracted. He wasn't _reading_ reading Dick's messages, but even the metadata said enough. Dick wasn't exactly hurting for company.

"Kid, can you please decide if you want to flirt with me or call me old? I'm getting whiplash here."

"I can do both. I'm a multitasker."

"Yeah, or you've got those patented Batman _daddy issues_."

"Ouch, only the _third_ person in the last six hours to strongly imply I've got parental kinks. Here we go! This one's gotta be him. I'm calling it."

He hit dial and Dick's phone, tossed out of Terry's grasp onto the couch, lit up with the call. Switched to speaker. Dick looked smugly certain it wasn't the right number. And to be fair, it shouldn't be. Terry should not be able to guess which one of the literally thousands of numbers on this phone are the semi-inactive mercenary's.

Rang once. It wasn't under D, there was no entry for 'Deathstroke'. It wasn't under T for Terminator. W for Wilson or S for Slade or even _Strokey_. But there was a phone number listed under the name '8'. It had no recorded messages, and exactly three recorded calls.

Rang twice. Dick's look of surety faltered at Terry's grin.

Rang three times. Terry enjoyed the sound of it echoing in the dark mansion.

Rang four-- _click_. " _Nightwing_ ," came the world's _second_ most ludicrously low, hideously self-satisfied, darkly terrifying voice.

"How the _fuck_ \--" Dick began, and Terry howled his laughter, and they both hung up.

"Haven't thought about him my _ass_ ," Terry cried.

"I still want to know, what are you, _psychic_?"

"My guy," Terry said, drawing the same figure eight Dick had earlier. "Ouroboros. He's your dark side mentor, and now y'all have matching eyepatches. And 'Slade' sounds just this side similar to 'eight'. Besides, considering the contacts you've got, Slade Wilson is an 8, _tops_. There are like, space royalty who you sext with, he's just _some guy_. No offence."

Dick laughed. "All right, maybe the inner workings of my burner's contact system aren't as complex as they first seem."

"I just _know_ the two tongue emojis person gotta be hot."

Dick cuffed him on the shoulder affectionately. "You need to get your girlfriend back, man."

"Bold of you to assume I don't want the space princess' contact info for _her_. That's the one with the fire emoji and then the heart, and then the hot face one, and two more fire, right?"

Dick laughed, and then Terry couldn't help joining, and then they heard a creaking on the stairs, and they were both alert in seconds.

One, two, three-step waltz down the hall. Bruce, plus Bruce's cane. Terry's muscles relaxed the same way Dick's did, down to the same instant. And in a few moments, Bruce stepped in to see them lounging across the carpet and the armchair.

"Hi, Bruce," Terry said, chipper.

"I don't want to know," Bruce said, automatic.

Early in their relationship, Terry was a lot less guarded about his emotions, vis-à-vis OG Bat. He loved Bruce, from the second he showed up in his mom's apartment, and offered him salvation. Put the suit on, here's your chance to prove to yourself that you can be something good. He _loved_ Bruce for that, under all the youthful Gothamite flippancy. How many times had he openly stated that he missed Bruce, or that Bruce was a great man, or that Bruce was like a _father?_ When, really, Terry had no idea who Bruce was, except lonely and cranky and _Batman_. In Terry's grief-desperation-fear-whatever, it was as if he'd cheated. Insisted on a trust for Bruce, forced it. Now he knew the whole picture, or at least enough of the pixels to get the point, and that cheap trust was shattered. He'd have to build it the proper way, taking the long way round.

Their relationship felt more solid, like this. Even if, for now, the trust didn't extend as far as it used to.

Two years ago, he wouldn't have hesitated to say: we're on your side, here, Bruce. We're going to keep you safe. Now, he'd think twice. No promises he couldn't keep, and no taking sides before the old man showed his hand.

"Are you all right?" he asked instead.

Bruce spared him a stupid-questions glance, and it let Terry see the beginnings of the fingerprint bruises on his fucking _windpipe_.

"I take it you handled things?" he asked Dick.

"Delayed them, at least. We've needed to talk to Jason for years," Dick said.

"And by we, he means you," Terry supplied helpfully.

"Hm," Bruce murmured. "Batman doesn't drink, Terry."

"Cool," Terry said. "Terry McGinnis does, though."

Dick laughed, and they toasted their drinks again without looking. "We're going to stick around for the night, and tomorrow we'll track Jay down and figure everything out."

"Good luck," Bruce said. "I'm sure he's out of the city by now. Jason tends to disappear when he's had his ears boxed."

"Then I'll have him brought back in," Dick said, shrugging. "We've got Batman, and Terry's just reminded me I have other methods of keeping tabs on Jason."

Bruce's lips pursed. Terry enjoyed his good seats again. He spoke both of these languages even if he didn't know what they were talking about. He could guess: Jason Todd had been running bounties, over the last few years, and it wasn't as if Nightwing didn't have any friends in those circles.

"I don't need both of you," Bruce said. "Especially not in this state. Dick, you should check on Tim. Terry can stay in the room upstairs. And if Jason's no longer in Gotham..."

"I'll call in some help," Dick agreed. "Sure, sounds like a plan. Terry, you've got things covered here?"

"No problem."

Dick looked between the two, nodded, picked himself up and left. Terry heard the revving of the comparatively innocuous sports car; the not-as-flashy-as-Dick-could-pull-off one.

Wordlessly, Terry padded over to the kitchen. Pulled out the prescriptions he knew by heart. Even if Bruce was way too healthy, he'd always have to take shit for the cardiac problems that Super-Suit caused. They each had their damage. Dick's leg ached in the winter, and occasionally he'd miss a swing by as much as an inch. Terry wondered, occasionally, what his would be.

Bruce bore it well, let Terry hand him the water and the pills, took them with a practiced motion. Terry rekindled the fire. He set about heating up some food they could eat, and set two plates down at the coffee table.

"I am sorry," Bruce said, not touching the food. "For what it's worth."

"What, for what you did to Jason, or that I have to be dragged into it?"

Bruce gave him that stupid-questions look again, but it carried the usual affection. Terry was about to force the old guy to eat when another panic alarm went off.

He'd been tipsy. He sobered up quick. Terry could guess. Jason wasn't just fixated on Bruce. They were assuming that because there was no anger there, that Tim was safe. Bruce guessed too, if his furious expression was anything to go by.

"Fuck's sake," Terry managed, slamming his plate down. His phone confirmed it. Dick had put out an all-hands alarm. Tim was gone, and the night in Gotham had properly started.


	3. Gotham five-step waltz

\---------------------Dick//Robin 01//Nightwing

Dick was furious with himself. They'd trusted Jason too far. Trusted that Jason cared about the _family_. No. Just Tim, and jettisoning the fucking _Bat_. He should have seen this move coming. Not that he felt like he could stop Jason, either. Talking was his best weapon; Jason had been right about that much. Dick felt the hollow ache in his leg late at night. Two good kicks to the kneecap away from a wheelchair.

He swore he'd kick Jason's ass regardless if Tim was so much as jostled in the back of Jason's car.

Barbara was setting the police on it, which would only piss Jason off, but the angrier the man got the better this was for them. Dick was still sure he wouldn't intentionally hurt Tim, but there was a lot of grey area before an intent to harm.

His apartment was dark, and Dick didn't bother with the lights. He wouldn't be here long.

He couldn't say what alerted him to a presence in the dining room. It was always like that. Without a second's warning, Dick's elbow shot out, caught a block, and he pulled himself back in to catch a swing from the intruder. After the first shot, Dick knew who it was. He threw in a couple more punches, just to take the aggression out. They'd tie each other like this all night, probably. Not that Slade Wilson felt like he was trying.

Finally, when they were in close, Slade caught his arm and pulled them together.

"You get unobservant when you're angry," he murmured in the gloom.

"Jesus, Slade," Dick sighed. "I've got shit to do."

Dick moved for the lights, and Slade pulled him away. They weren't as mismatched as they had been when Dick first started getting nightmares about the mercenary. Dick was still leaner, leggier. Lighter on his feet, despite the injuries. But Slade could go and go and _go_. The Terminator's healing factor gave teenaged Dick serious anxiety problems and it made adult Dick pause before considering his combat options.

"I can see fine," Slade said, handling Dick away from the switch. "I've got night vision on, and I've got to say, the eyepatch is doing _something_ for me."

"You know, you're the second person to say that today. Why are you in Gotham?"

"You called," Slade intoned, and Dick could _hear_ the grin. He pulled out of the mercenary's grip, leaned against the counter.

"I called, like, forty five minutes ago."

"Dick, that's a lifetime in my business. My jet's been supersonic for a decade."

"You're saying you hopped in your jet and came over, because I drop-called you?" Dick asked, folding his arms.

"Fine," Slade said. "Gotham's the place to be tonight. Everyone's hunting your brother for a Lazarus connection, and every criminal in the city's petrified of the Bat. Lots of money to be made for a mercenary. I'm here taking double pay for a bit of corporate undercutting. Or I _was_ , until I get a call from my favorite Robin. Something's going down."

"Bat-family stuff," Dick said. "Looks like by now everyone knows Red Hood's in town. He knocked a couple of Bruce's teeth loose and then dipped. We figured that'd be it; I mean, it's not like it's the first time Jason's swung around the manor to say hello; but it looks like he went over and nabbed Tim Drake from Gotham General for some stupid reason, so now it's an _issue_."

"Ouch," Slade said, false-sympathetic. "And you're going to have to tell Drake that you let him get kidnapped because you were too busy getting high with some coed."

Dick brushed past him, turning on his console, setting it to search chatter for keywords, and to search properties for any potential Jason Todd hideouts. "The coed was Batman, and it was nothing but a couple beers. And that sounded _distinctly_ jealous, Slade."

The man loomed in the dark somewhere behind him. "I like the new Batman. His suit reminds me of someone."

"You stay away," Dick warned, flashing a pointer finger somewhere vaguely in Slade's direction, still watching the screen.

"That was definitely jealousy," Slade murmured. "Don't worry, like I said. The eyepatch _does_ something to me. It's like when you were wearing my colors."

Dick's eyes narrowed. "I was a kid, Slade. What the fuck."

"Oh, you never did it again? Must have just been my imagination."

Dick hummed, unconvinced. "You can see why I want you to stay away from the new Bat."

Slade said nothing, content to watch Dick work. And Dick was at a stage in his night, and frankly, his _life_ where he didn't care if Slade watched him change into the suit. All-black, nowadays. No sweeps of blue. No superheroics.

"I assume you're sticking around for a paycheck, because I'm not gonna fuck you," he said, as Deathstroke watched from the corner of the room.

"See, that's what I've always appreciated about you," Slade said. "You get the to-the-point thing from the Bat, but you wear it so much _better_."

"I just know who my audience is."

"Flexible," Slade purred. "A moral compass made out of TV static."

"It's not difficult to tune to your channel, Slade. Everything you want could fit on a _bumper sticker_. So what are you chasing?"

"Leaning money. I won't pretend I don't know how deep your pockets go."

"Good," Dick said, straightening out his suit, feeling Slade's Slade's eye rove, seeing more through his lens than Dick could even see of himself. "I don't think he's left the city. Call it a data hunch."

Slade realized Dick was looking at him, expectant. "What, do you want my professional opinion? Hood's a maniac, but you know what he's always wanted out of Robin Three."  
His tone was suggestive. His hand slipped up Dick's side. Dick did know, even if it had always made him a bit uncomfortable. Jason's obsession with Tim, slightly returned.  
"You can guess what he's got planned for Drake," Slade rumbled. "I don't see why you're going to all the trouble to stop him."

Dick shook his head. "You don't get it. One dip in the pool is bad: it can exacerbate a lot of mental health disorders even if you're not dead going in. Anything past one gets catastrophic _quick_. If Tim takes a swim in the green, he'll never stop. He's always been tempted, worse than Jason, and Jason's _clearly_ addicted. You have no idea how many times Tim's brought himself back from the brink of using it; for himself, on his teammates. You have no idea how attractive the idea is to someone who's lost as much as he has. Ra's knew it, Bruce knows it, Tim knows it. I'm not saving Tim from Jason, I'm saving him from himself."

Once Dick had said his piece, Slade simply assessed him in silence again. He looked out at the city and Dick could imagine the open distaste under the mask he sort of hoped Slade wouldn't take off. Dick had about twenty seconds to get cool with this situation before someone started questioning his shots. He put his sticks to his back and pulled out two of the biggest, meanest guns he'd ever felt guilty about buying, and Slade wolf-whistled with a noticeable approval.

"Gotta love how much money you people throw at your family tragedies," he said, and Dick tossed them both at him, confident he'd catch.

"Let's talk terms. As long as I'm paying by the hour, you're on carrying my shit duty," Dick said. "And if you harm a hair on Tim's head you know I'll kill you."

"And Hood?"

It was Dick's turn to survey the city. Concrete, black in the dark until it met neon light; and a remarkably clear, stubbornly starless sky. "Negotiable."

\---------------------Tim//Robin 03//Red Robin

Tim only gradually became aware that he wasn't alone in his room. He was preoccupied inside himself, in his own body, which had always been something he hated.

Even at his peak, as a young superhero, his body had always been the limiter. Too skinny, or too weak, or too slow to keep up with his brain; too underfed or overcaffeinated, too tired. The new sensations of pain from malfunctioning nerve endings were distracting. He'd lost a ton of weight, some of it probably for the best, some of it less so. He had no energy, not that he ever did, but Red Robin could _force_ it. And no one was letting him have any goddamned coffee.

The tremor was annoying. He'd been tinkering with some haptic gloves, though, which could probably mitigate some of it, at least so that he could work. And the idea of an assistant wasn't a bad one anyway, but it just felt like--stalling.

Delaying the inevitable.

Delaying tactics were running through his mind. He must have nodded off somehow, because he didn't hear the window click open. He didn't hear it click shut. He just opened his eyes in the gloom and knew Jason was there.

"Hello, Jason," Tim tried, letting a fake boredom take root in his voice. "It's been a while."

"Hi, Timbers," Jason said.

Tim almost laughed. "If it turns out you've hurt Dick, you know I won't forgive you. And that's what you want, isn't it?"

"This isn't about what I want," Jason said. "Come on, get up, we're going."

"Jay, I don't know how much you know about stroke patients, but I'm really not supposed to leave the bed. And whatever adventure this is supposed to be, I don't want a part of."

In the dark, Tim could barely see the scowl. Jason sat at his bedside like a put-out child, and Tim gasped when he came into the moonlight.

Jason looked twenty years younger than he ought to be. At least. He looked startlingly handsome, like a ghost sent to haunt him, and something in Tim's heart contorted.

"Jason," Tim said. "No."

"I haven't even--"

"--you think I want that?" Tim asked. "You're more delusional than usual."

Something in Jason's jaw set. "Yeah, well," he said, pulling a mask from his jacket. Before Tim could move, Jason had wrapped it over his nose and mouth, and Tim was given his umpteenth painful reminder of the limitations of the body. "Runs in the family."

He breathed. Things went hazy.

\---------------------Bruce//Batman 01//Batman

Bruce watched the Batmobile take off, turning to the monitor. He could coordinate, even if it raged in his bloodstream against his agency complex. The one he pretended not to have for a decade, until Terry showed up and stole the Batsuit.

He looped everyone into a call, pulled up everyone's trackers. Dick was at his apartment, gearing up, and Bruce would politely ignore the kind of ordinance Dick and Barbara would feel comfortable using. Barbara was in her office at the precinct, surveying the city. Terry was already halfway to the Narrows; triangulating without ever being told. Each sent him their own system information; Barbara's police chatter; Dick's computer running likely boltholes; Terry's friend setting facial recognition algorithms loose on social media; and the Batcave's computer trying to source any information about the pit. Terry sent him visual as well, rounding out Bruce's data with a more holistic view of the city.

Bruce was seeing a pattern. A lot of actors had emerged in the last two hours, and not the home-grown ones. Police weren't seeing much action, but strange--

"Stalker's been sighted," Bruce cut his thoughts short, audio-connecting everyone. "Gunfire consistent with mercenary-level ordinance on a mid-street level."

" _Stalker?_ All of Gotham's come out tonight," Terry said. Bruce listened to his voice echo through the cave, like an uninterrupted sound. The rhythm of the last five years and change. "Can't be a coincidence."

"If Jason's got a Lazarus Pit, it's likely to be the last one," Bruce replied.

"And this is the first time he's emerged in years," Barbara said.

"Last word put him in South America, _barely_ ," Dick cut in. "I've called in some extra hands. Apparently the League of Assassins are here chasing their green."

"And their Demon Head?" Bruce asked, knowing how clipped he must sound, knowing that Dick would notice.

"Not showing, probably doesn't want to involve himself."

"Smart boy," Barbara murmured.

"So it's just goons," Terry said. "I can work with that. I'm picking up _Society_ of Assassins, too. AKA _Curare_. Max is beaming me some locations."

"They don't take Gotham jobs anymore," someone said over Dick's connection, and Bruce felt a very old anger flare up, almost enough to keep him warm in the dark of the cave. Ever since he'd brought up his connections to the mercenary earlier, Bruce had the sinking feeling they'd been in contact over Red Hood. Dick seemed to have better information about Jason than the rest did, and Bruce could piece together who his supplier was, even if he didn't like it. Even if he was in no position to voice his disapproval. Even if he threatened to break the chair's armrest with the grip he held it in now, blood pressure be damned.

"They do tonight. Lay low. They'll lead us to Red Hood," Barbara cut in with her no-nonsense tone. Bruce felt in some sense that it was more directed towards him than Deathstroke. Oracle had always been good at seeing through him. "Nightwing, if that's who I think it is, we're going to have _words_."

"You can drop the code names, Babs, we all know he's known our secret identities for decades."

"Uh, guys?" Terry began. "Not that I want to interrupt the new season of Inside Peek, but it's a bit late for laying low. They're fighting each other."

"The fuck's Inside Peek?" Slade Wilson could be heard asking.

"Think Maury Show meets TMZ," Dick offered helpfully.

"Christ, y'all are old. I'm on mid-level, I can see Stalker engaging the League goons. They're going to get bystanders killed."

Terry had already ejected from the Batmobile, was already freefalling, and Bruce felt the vise over his heart ease. The boy knew how to use his position; knew how to focus on the mission. Didn't get bogged down in decades-old feelings, the ones Bruce refused to even acknowledge that he _had_. Terry could be counted on to be sharp. To be what was needed.

More than he'd ever know. Bruce took over the Batmobile, kept its visual, trusted Terry to watch his own back, and yet he couldn't stop himself from saying: "Be careful."

"Always," Batman replied.

\---------------------Terry//Batman 02//Batman

Terry had been headed into the Narrows. He had a hunch. Jason was old, wasn't he? Even if he didn't show his age. He didn't know Neo-Gotham. He'd be down there, somewhere. And as much as the ratty, low-level, semi-abandoned space was the center of Bruce's shredded psyche, the same was true of the Robins.

But he'd been sidetracked. Not that he minded a bit of urban skydiving. The night was still young, and the League of Assassins were fighting with Stalker over the same prey, if Terry had to guess. Well, Stalker was friendlier, and marginally less likely to kill Jason and/or use the Pit for his own nefarious purposes. Plus, he wasn't the one using guns. So Terry made it a point to land on a League goon foot-first, draw the fire at him instead of dangerously close to the people fleeing the plaza.

He flattened out, ducking under the haze of bullets, and kicked off at the nearest likely target. This was where Terry worked best: high pressure, clear objectives. Save everyone. Keep breathing. He could do it with a sort of flippancy he imagined Bruce never wasted emotional energy on. Service with a _smile_. This was his city, and he proved it every time the League of Assassins missed their shots. Some of them had swords, and Terry's Batsuit wasn't as great about swords generally. The arm shields worked okay, but sent some slightly concerning sparks flying.

Terry kicked the offending sword in a move stolen straight out of Grayson's playbook. Stolen and stolen _right_ , even if he wasn't in those steel-tipped killers Grayson wore in the video he jacked this move from, before he even knew who Robin was.

Stalker stepped into the fray with an appreciable ease, now that Terry was the underdog, picking the right fight. Against the _bigger guy_ , and Terry could dig that attitude even if he had to occasionally redirect one of Stalker's attacks so that they didn't kill the goon.

There was a spectrum in the Bat-sphere, as Terry understood it. Jason killed for justice and, Terry suspected, fun. Barbara had no real qualms with killing in the line of duty but avoided it at almost all costs. Dick was more of a pragmatist than Terry had at first pegged him for, but he didn't kill. Terry had only killed out of incompetence, would never let anyone kill someone else so long as he could help it, and hated the idea.

_(Big Time, grotesquely deformed, hanging off the edge of a bridge, eyes wild, and Terry could see the smooth-talking Gotham teen underneath the body horror; the one Terry was looking to save every time he saw them; the kind that covered up their fear with a dissociative roll-with-the-punches ease and a blank stare and petty crime. The one who was just like him, nudged slightly to one side, never handed the suit.)_

Bruce wouldn't kill, wouldn't let anyone kill, often couldn't work with anyone who killed, and still froze up at the idea of committing murder. He wasn't happy with what happened to Ian fucking _Peek_ , even if he pretended it wasn't a big deal.

What was he--? Too late. His body had done the work. Assassins in green robes carrying automatics strewn all over the plaza, and Stalker staring expectantly at him. Stalker had his hunting paint on, all six foot five of him staring Terry way, _way_ down. Dark skin lit up against the purplish sky. It never got fully dark in this part of Gotham, and certainly not with as many police lights combing the streets as there were tonight. Nepotism really got the GCPD moving.

"Batman," Stalker acknowledged. "I did not require your assistance. I assume you, too, hunt the same prey."

"Hood's a popular guy, tonight," Batman replied, shrugging amiably. "Look, I know you have your whole hunt thing going, but I really need Hood alive. He's got a hostage, someone in the family. What do you say we take this one on together?"

"I hunt alone," Stalker said. "For the honor of it."

"This is an honorable cause, though. And it'd be a fuck ton more honorable than shooting big game."

"I don't--do that any more."

Ouch, the Stalker looked guilty at that. They'd both gone through it. A horrible poaching case involving a very sentient gorilla he and Terry were mutual friends with. Now they were both _vegans_ , but it was probably funnier that the Stalker was, since he very much still killed humans.

"But I do owe you, Batman," he said, eyes narrowing. "And--there are more impediments to the hunt for Red Hood than I had anticipated. It will be difficult to avoid civilian casualties without your help."

Terry took the response for what it was: the tactful, pride-saving agreement to tag-team. He was starting to speak fluent low-grade supervillain, and he liked Stalker way better than the other people in that bracket. "Have you managed to see him yet?"

The Stalker nodded. "I engaged with him briefly. He and his companion are on an aerial ATV."

Terry almost gasped with their good luck. Jason would need to have a bigger ride somewhere if he were taking Tim globetrotting, he'd need to get to it. "Shit. Tell me you know the make."

The Stalker grinned. "I shall do you one better, demon of the concrete jungle."

\---------------------Jason//Robin 02//Red Hood

\--------- _Some fucking guy in war paint and a loincloth nearly put a fucking spear through me nearly hurt Tim how many bounties were on his head how many of them were Damian's what use were the goddamn cops everywhere fucking Barbara how dare she can't she see this would be the best thing for Tim?? for everyone? why is no one in this family watching him look at him he's hurting so badly he's so_ \---------

\--------- _old_ \---------

\--------- _and they just dump him in some hospital bed some corner of Wayne Industries making more toys for Bruce so he can play masturbation fantasy with that goddamn kid the one that said I didn't care about Tim I'm the only person in the world that ever cared about Tim I'll do what Bruce never could I'll save him I'll kill for him!! we're being followed those stupid fucking league of assassin hacks are going to trigger a war with this many cops crawling around the city like bugs the city's changed it's changed how long have I stayed away from Gotham this used to be my city and now everything looks like that goddamn kid all sleek corners and no rough edges nowhere to hide Tim's looking at me but I can't look back he's not saying anything I miss his voice but I couldn't bear it not right now I can feel the storm breaking we're going to have to punch a hole in this city to leave it I need to be ready where is it where_ \---------

"You're microdosing?" Tim asked, frowning. Jason hadn't even found the vial yet, Tim just--knew. The little green vial fished out of his bag, and a needle to take it with. He wound his sleeve up, tightened the band around his arm, punctured the vial with the needle, flicked it carefully.

"Jason, you're putting it in your _blood?_ "

"It's the only way the Pit works without submersion," Jason said, not looking at Tim's face. The world bled back into his mind. They were holed up in a warehouse. All he had to do was get to where he'd stashed the plane, ten levels down and a few miles out at the edge of the city. The closest he could come without flagging anything, since he didn't have Bruce's fancy stealth tech.

"It's supposed to absorb through skin contact. How in the hell--Jason, that's _not_ microdosing."

"I never said it was," Jason said, watching the needle pierce his skin. "You said that. Anyways, if I dose like this, I only have to go in once a year, and I get to skip the whole Pit-fresh unpleasant bit."

Jason laid back as he pushed the handle down. He watched Tim looking at his arm, following the green course through him, Jason could feel it everywhere, he could feel Tim's gaze everywhere. He saw it flash, just for a second: _hunger_.

"You look good like this," Jason said, gesturing to him. "Almost a shame. As much as I give Dick shit for it, turns out I'm really feeling the silver fox thing."

"You're older than me," Tim reminded him gently, still not looking at his face. Just watching the fading green pulse, watching the strength flood into Jason's muscles.

Tim's pale eyes matched the grey hair better than they ever matched the black. His skin was darker from outdoors work as an engineer. He'd always been the scrawniest of the Robins and the assorted hangers-on, but since then he'd put on weight, and was in flux now. He looked like a person from the real world. Like he'd escaped the Bat-trajectory, but they both knew he hadn't. The tremor in his arms, the occasional wince in pain, the twitching irritation at his own sickness, the reminder of who his body had once belonged to; all proof to the contrary.

Tim had killed the Joker and the Joker had found a way to digitally haunt him. One fried nerual net chip later, and Tim Drake was the Joker's walking gravesite.

He wasn't sure who leaned in first. He was, it had to be said, on a bit of an adrenaline rush. It was a bit perverse, it always had been. They ought to be brothers, the way they both were with Dick. But Jason had been dead by the time Tim came into the fold, and he'd never really seen Tim through the red haze, not until he saw Red Robin lash out on his own after the Bat had tried to silence him. Not until he thought about him, about the way he moved, about the kid who had finally killed the Joker with his own weapon, who was now this pale, anxious, caffeinated Gothamite wreck in a red and black suit kicking Batman's ass at his own game.

Somewhere underneath him the creature of sheer instinct roared. Wanted this. He nearly toppled Drake with the force he put into the kiss he wasn't even sure he started.

\--------- _yes yes yes finally God you've figured it out you were supposed to be the brains I know you've seen it we've always fit so well together even mismatched like this you want it you never let yourself have anything you want just give in already damn it_ \---------

Tim wrenched back, with a look something between nausea and vertigo. Jason ignored him for a moment, quelled the disquiet in his head, got everything ready for them to set out again. He understood. Especially the vertigo.

After all, this was a long way to fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @ some point maybe I'll elaborate on the Stalker taking down poachers and deciding to get into only hunting humans b/c he's too cool for animal cruelty
> 
> thoughts for a future episode of dissociative superheroics and neon


End file.
